


come and get your love

by beastlyboop



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, No Condoms Allowed, Smut, Vaginal Sex, gender-neutral dfab reader, post-portal ford, request, stanford pines finally gets some after 30 years, takes place sometime vaguely during the events of the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastlyboop/pseuds/beastlyboop
Summary: The Shack seems cold, lifeless, and empty. You know it isn’t, you know there are signs of life around, the tv running, the lights on, and you can hear the building creak occasionally, but sometimes you’re not sure if it’s someone walking around or the wind outside trying to blow the place down. The twins are gone, although it did take some convincing to get Dipper to finally leave - he had been hovering around the vending machine since Stanford had last appeared from behind it.While Stan has assured you that your presence is welcome even though the Shack is temporarily (you hope) closed, without anything to do you feel, well, pretty useless. You feel as if you should leave the two men to their business and let them work it out amongst themselves, although if Stanford is anything like his brother, it won’t be easy.





	come and get your love

**Author's Note:**

> request was for ford/reader
> 
> [on tumblr](https://beastlybutts.tumblr.com/post/128447248960/come-and-get-your-love-stanford-pines-x-reader)

The Shack seems cold, lifeless, and empty. You know it isn’t, you know there are signs of life around, the tv running, the lights on, and you can hear the building creak occasionally, but sometimes you’re not sure if it’s someone walking around or the wind outside trying to blow the place down. The twins are gone, although it did take some convincing to get Dipper to finally leave - he had been hovering around the vending machine since Stanford had last appeared from behind it.

While Stan has assured you that your presence is welcome even though the Shack is temporarily (you hope) closed, without anything to do you feel, well, pretty useless. You feel as if you should leave the two men to their business and let them work it out amongst themselves, although if Stanford is anything like his brother, it won’t be easy.

You’ve only seen him a few times since his arrival, always catching him moments before he’s pulled back down to the basement and his work there, whatever that is. Sometimes, at night, on the nights that you stay over, you can hear him around the house, the floor creaking with steps too heavy for either of the kids.

And once, late at night, an encounter in the kitchen. You had gone to get a glass of water and he was there, by the sink, looking out of the window. The moonlight cast over his face, his eyes staring off. You didn’t disturb him. It was the first time you had seen him still. Calm, even. His face so familiar and yet so different.

You had considered going back to bed before he turned to look at you, the light glinting off of his glasses and obscuring his eyes. In the silence that followed you were left wondering what it was he was thinking. Maybe he was wondering what you were doing in his house in the middle of the night. 

It was several moments before either of you had done anything, before he finally moved, making his way past you and out of the kitchen without a word.

Kind of awkward, but it was a good start.

x

The morning after that, sitting at the kitchen table, you could feel eyes on you. You were eating, or trying to, with Mabel on one side of you, Stan across from you, and Dipper with Stanford on the other side of the room. Both twins were chattering excitedly, one in your ear and the other in the author’s, and, looking down at your plate, you could feel you were being watched. 

When you raised your head you could see Stan looking out the window and although Mabel was speaking to you, she was also preoccupied with Waddles, who she was steadily packing full of pancakes beneath the table. Across the room you caught Stanford staring, intense, right at you. You raised your eyebrows at him, curious, and he turned away.

Shortly afterward he left the room, Dipper at his heels.

x

After so long, it feels weird to not be behind the counter, the room is too still, too quiet. The lights are out but at this time of day the sun coming in through the windows is enough to keep the room lit, bathing it in a warm, orange glow that makes you feel almost nostalgic. You don’t know how long this will go on, and every time you think about it you can feel your stomach tighten, and not just at the thought of losing your job.

You end up taking a seat on the stool behind the register and picking up a magazine which had been left on the counter. You might as well do something to keep yourself busy. After several minutes you can hear the shuffling of something in the next room, footsteps, and look up, just in time to see the vending machine door push outward into the room. Stanford steps out, wiping his dirty hands on a rag, ignoring or just not seeing you, working each of his twelve fingers through the cloth. He’s wearing an oil-stained white wife beater, his sweater tied around his waist, and before you can notice anything else his eyes are on you. 

You stare back at him, and for a while it stays that way.

You look away first, nervous under the intense stare, back at the magazine, and the next thing you hear is his exit into the living room. He returns a minute later, and you can hear him descend the stairs back into the basement.

When you look up again, you see the entrance is still open, the blue light from within glowing softly at the end of the room. You set the magazine down, looking around, and then back to the vending machine. Sliding off of the stool, you stand behind the counter for a moment, unsure.

Eventually you find yourself at the top of the stairs. The bare lightbulb above you guides your way down to the elevator, which you find open. You cast a glance back into the room before stepping inside, the doors closing quietly behind you. 

When the doors open again you’re facing a dark room, lit poorly by the lights of several different machines which are lining the walls. At the far end of the room you can just make out Stanford’s shape, silhouetted against the lights of the console he stands in front of.

You take a step into the room and clear your throat, but he doesn’t seem to notice you. In fact it seems like he doesn’t realize you’re even there until you’re standing right next to him. He turns to look at you, this time less intense and more curious, and you stare back up at him, silent. The dull sheen of sweat on his brow, his mussed hair, and the dark rings around his eyes makes it clear he’s been working on something, and probably hasn’t been sleeping at all.

He looks so much like Stan, obviously, but harder, more world-weary. You can’t imagine what the last three decades of his life have been like.

Pushing yourself up on onto your toes and leaning forward, you press a kiss against his lips. When you pull back his wide eyes catch yours, and even in the dim light you can see his face turn red.

x

“You don’t know how hard it was,” he breathes, pulling your shirt over your head, kissing at your neck, “There was a humanoid race but they had teeth everywhere, just, all over the place. And their saliva was like acid.” He makes quick work of the clasp of your bra, pulls it open and off, throws it over his shoulder.

“That sounds terrible,” you say softly as he kisses at your shoulder. You let your hands rest against his chest, fingers splayed against the warm, hard skin, the soft chest hair. Your hands skim down to his stomach, where it softens, the pudge that comes with age – even with the life he’s lived, he’s still soft in some places.

He feels your body, your own soft and hard places, your stomach, sides, your hips, thighs, his rough hands skimming over your skin. Your hands meet his when you reach for his belt, Stanford having already pulled it free.

His hands move up your bare thighs, up into your skirt, pushing it up, and you sit back against the edge of the console as his fingers catch the hem of your underwear. He pulls them down and you step out of them, and for a moment he stays crouched at your feet, staring up at you, and you stare down your body at him. His hands come to rest on the backs of your thighs, and as he stands he pulls you up slightly and pushes you back against the console until you’re sitting on the desk.

Grabbing your hips, he pulls you closer, leaning against you, and you can feel his bulge rubbing against your bare skin. His hands and mouth find your breasts, holding them, and he rubs your nipples between thumb and forefinger before his lips close around one, taking it into his mouth. His tongue traces over the areola, teeth pressing into the soft, sensitive skin. You gasp as he sucks there, your hands grabbing at his hair, his body, and with one you find the space between the two of you, find his cock, pulling it free. It comes to rest against your lips, pushing between them as he thrusts forward, rubbing up against your clit with every roll of his hips. You hold him there, guide him, feeling sparks run down your legs with every brush against the sensitive nub.

He holds one thigh up with one hand and with the other holds your breast, he pulls off and finds the other one, licking the nipple hungrily before taking it into his mouth, groaning against your skin, his hot breath spilling against your chest. You use your fingers to guide his cock now between your lips, and with a well-aimed thrust he slides inside of you, burying himself deep, and busies himself with short, sharp thrusts into you, punctuated by his muffled groans.

Looking down you see him staring at you, the same stare as earlier, what you had mistaken as anger, intense, now lust, or hunger, your own face red as you watch him. His body moving on top of you, he raises his head, his mouth pulling off of your breast with a soft pop, and he smiles, licking his lips. His hands massage your breasts, gently, the skin now tender and warm.

Your head back, resting against the console, legs on either side of him, he pulls you down, closer, until you’re flush against him. With every thrust you can feel him fill you entirely, with every desperate movement, and he kisses at your chest, your throat. One of your hands rests on his shoulder, his glasses fall onto the console below, his eyebrows furrowed with the effort. Your fingers work your clit as he thrust into you, your own hips rolling against him, trying to match his movements, erratic as they are.

You moan his name,  _Stan, Stanford, oh,_ and suddenly you find his hips bucking hard against you, your own body rigid, riding out your orgasm and his. He grunts with each thrust,  _fuck, fuck, oh, **fuck,**_ until at last he’s fully inside of you, holding you close, release spilling into you, cock throbbing, breath shaky in your ear. You can feel him trembling, his body against you, bringing you closer against himself. After a minute he raises his head, stares at you, now softer, smiling, and kisses your cheek, your mouth, before pulling out, and you groan at the empty feeling. Your legs fall back against the console and he tucks himself back in, pulls his pants up, and you stare at each other, laugh, quietly, your heart still thumping in your chest. 

You smile as he lifts a hand to brush the hair from your face, and you find his glasses on the desk beneath you, handing them back to him. He slides them back on and helps you off the console, and you stand there for a moment, chest to chest. After a moment he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, mumbling against your skin, something like thank you, and you sigh, closing your eyes. How familiar, and yet so different.


End file.
